


Not What Snow White Had in Mind

by rat_in_the_pool



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rat_in_the_pool/pseuds/rat_in_the_pool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern royalty au featuring reluctant, new-found prince Mickey and long-suffering etiquette coach Ian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not What Snow White Had in Mind

“Mickey, come on."

“What? You said my fuckin’ steps were too small.”

“And now they’re too big and you know they’re too big,” Ian said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was leaning against a column., sleeves rolled up, pink tie loosened, red hair messy from running his hands through it so many times. He’d lost his jacket sometime around seven. Now it was thrown over the chair that held Ethel’s phone and a set of portable speakers that were blasting Chopin. The music bounced of the gilded plaster walls of the ballroom, and on the marble floor, Ian watched as the prince attempted to waltz.

As rumpled as Ian was, it was the prince who had dressed most casually for this dance lesson. But then, sleeveless shirts, ratty jeans, and work boots might as well be Mickey’s uniform. His trademarks also included making Ian’s job hell.

“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Mickey said, oh-so-innocently. “I’m just following your directions.”

“You’re just trying to make this as hard as possible. That’s what you’re doing,” Ian said.

Ethel (who by some miracle had kept her balance as Mickey tossed her around) slowed their steps with gentle command and pulled away. “Why don’t we take a break? I’m sure we could all use one, right Ian?”

Ian took a deep breath and hissed it out through gritted teeth. They had been at this for two hours and Mickey hadn’t mastered one step. More accurately, Mickey refused to master one step.

“Sure,” Ian said. “Fine. Get some water, go to the bathroom - “

“Have a smoke,” Mickey said, making a beeline for the balconies and fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket.

“ _Not_ have a smoke,” said Ian, stalking after him and snatching the box out of his hand.

“What the hell?” Mickey whirled around.

“We covered this yesterday,” said Ian, unfazed by the palpable menace emitting from the man glaring up at him. “The press is having a hard enough time accepting you without your personal cloud of tobacco. They gotta go, Mickey.”

“You were serious about that?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ian snarled.

Mickey huffed out a disbelieving little laugh as he backed away. “This is some bullshit.” He turned to walk towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Ian demanded.

“To the fucking john, you got a problem?” Mickey said over his shoulder as he climbed the grand staircase. Sully, that night’s security detail, trailed after him.

“Not if you come out with a better vocabulary,” Ian called after him.

Mickey’s scoff was loud enough to carry from the second floor. Sully chuckled as he followed his charge out of the ballroom.

Ian rubbed his face and groaned. Ethel walked over to pat him on the back. “He’s still getting used to everything,” she said.

“It’s been six weeks,” said Ian.

“It’s a big change,” insisted Ethel. “Is six weeks really enough time to get used to discovering that you’re responsible for a whole country?”

“We’ve got a Prime Minister, Ethel, the monarchy’s power is limited, thank god. Can you imagine Mickey running a country? And anyway, Tony’s the oldest. Mickey’s just...the _worst_.”

Ethel pursed her lips at Ian’s over-dramatics. “You know what I mean. And he is not the worst.”

“He really is.” It came out muffled as Ian had shoved his face into his hands again. “I can’t believe I was so relieved when Terry died.”

“You don’t mean that.” Ethel said sharply.

“No,” Ian amended. Even Saint Ethel couldn’t find the good in their late employer. His Royal Highness Terrence Milkovich had been grade-A scum of the earth. The most spoiled, vicious asshole to ever be granted a monumentally undeserving amount of power and privilege. It should have come as no surprise, after his death, to find he’d been regularly charming, terrorizing and impregnating a woman in Chicago during his tours of the States.

Ian had been relieved when Terry’s shitty heart had finally given out. His boss had been the only thing about his job he hadn’t liked, but he _really_ hadn’t liked him. Even with the throne going to his tool of a brother, Ian had been content to know he wouldn’t have to keep tensing for action whenever the female staff spent too much time with the king. That he wouldn’t have to keep taking money out of his paycheck to bribe the king’s drug source into giving him weaker product than he asked for. That he wouldn’t have to keep warning new staff members to leave the king to his own devices when he drank. To not try to help him when he seemed incapacitated. That they should worry about themselves first because the king sure as hell wouldn’t.

So yes, anyone made a better boss than Terry. But Ian wasn’t any less stressed at work with him gone. It was just a different kind of stressed.

Because, as his will revealed, Terry _had_ left heirs after all. Dirt-poor heirs that Ian was now responsible for turning into royalty.

Fucking Lip. Slick, fucking head of PR, Lip. Who knew better how to fake respectability with low-class roots than Ian? Who knew better what was expected of the royal family than Ian? Motherfucker.

But if there was one thing Ian was good at, it was taking orders. So, when the Milkoviches arrived at the palace, he’d introduced himself as the head of staff and their etiquette coach.

“The fuck’s that?” Iggy, one of the older boys had asked. The curse earned him a slap on the neck from his mother.

“It means you can only say ‘fudge’ now, Iggs,” said Mandy. She the youngest. The only girl besides their mother.

Ian smiled. “Not at all. This is your house, you're in private company, you can say whatever you want."

"You're private company?" came a drawl from behind Mandy. Ian peered around to take in the darkest, surliest, and second-youngest Milkovich.

"I run the house,” said Ian. “I manage your day-to-day schedules, I go to events with you. Basically, I’m here to provide anything and everything you need.”

Mickey nodded. “So you’re the royal bitch?”

“ _Mykola_ ,” his mother snapped just as Mandy said, “Jesus, Mickey.”

“Uh,” Ian floundered. The fuck? He wasn’t offended, just thrown. Growing up with Carl and Lip as his brothers, he was used to having off-hand insults tossed his way. In any other situation, Ian would have laughed. As it was, he realized he was short-circuiting in front of his new employers when he was supposed to be smoothing things over. As was his freaking duty, regroup, regroup.

“I’m your right arm,” Ian managed, finally. “Essentially. So, yes,” he gestured toward Mickey (who was launching his first attack on the air in the palace by lighting a cigarette), “I’m ‘private company.' It’s part of my job to keep everything you say to, and in front of, me in confidence. And I’m a resource. I’m your best resource. Since Your Highnesses are new to your positions, you’re understandably unfamiliar with your day-to-day duties. You’re going to be attending political and social functions, formal dinners, charity events, events where the press will be in attendance...”

Even Mandy had started to look a little green at this list. Behind her, her mother had breathed a “Good god.”

“No!,” Ian rushed to assure them, “That’s what I’m here for. You won’t go into any of this stuff without feeling like pros, I promise you. You’ll know everything from how to recognize an oyster fork to what the Ambassador of Sweden is allergic to.”

“Peanuts?” guessed Mandy.

“Actually, oysters,” said Ian. “Well, shellfish. But oysters are shellfish, so-”

“So you’re Henry Higgins and we’re Eliza Doolittle,” Mickey said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ian said. “For starters you could hardly call Henry Eliza’s bitch.”

The other boys snorted and Mandy let out a gleeful cackle, but their mother looked embarrassed. “Mickey is -”

“It’s absolutely fine,” said Ian. “Like I said, you should feel free to be yourselves around me. And that goes for the rest of the house staff, too. Everything that happens here will be kept in confidence. I’m just here to help.”

Her smile was warm but Mickey’s stare was unreadable.

He’d shown them to their rooms oldest to youngest. Mickey and Mandy were in the same wing and their doors faced each other from opposite sides of the hall. Mandy had shrieked at the sight of the canopied, sea of down she was meant to sleep in. She dove into it with a running jump and groaned out an “Oh my goood,” as she rolled onto her back.

Ian grinned from where he leaned in the doorway. “It meets your approval, Princess?”

“Come on, Ian,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows to look at him. “I appreciate the fanfare, but are you gonna always have to call me Princess?”

“Not if Your Highness prefers something else,” Ian said.

“Mandy’s good.”

“Mandy,” Ian repeated, nodding. He heard a snort and turned to see Mickey wandering back out of his room. “And how would you like to be addressed, sir?” Ian asked.

“I’m starting to like ‘Your Highness,’” he said, smirking.

“ _Assface_ ,” Mandy called.

“ _Douchebag_ ,” Mickey returned.

Ian fought off an eye-roll. “I’ll let you two, get settled,” he said, straightening.

He’d been half-way down the hallway when he heard, “You really think you can bippity-boppity-boo us into anything other than Southside trash?”

There was something so satisfying about about returning Mickey’s challenging glare. Terry never stood for any insolence from his underlings, but his son almost seemed to _want_ to hear it.

“Well,” Ian had said with a shrug, “I’m Southside trash, myself. So why not?”

Mickey exhaled a long plume of smoke, giving Ian a once-over. “Nice tie-clip, Southside.”

Ian looked down at the clip that divided his customary pink tie. When he looked back up, Mickey had disappeared back into his rooms. Ian was left to consider his first impressions of the family. _Mickey could use some work_ , he’d thought.

It wasn’t that that Mickey and his family were too chaotic. Ian sort of welcomed their chaos as a challenge. He hadn't had much to worry about since the king's funeral. With the palace’s inhabitants reduced to one person, Ian had been free to let the rest of the staff run itself, pretty much. The arrival of Terry’s heirs and their mother gave him something to organize, finally. But Ian had vastly underestimated the pressures of being an etiquette coach.

No matter how friendly they were, the older Milkoviches were a mess. Tony, Jaime, Colin, and Iggy had no verbal filter, whatsoever. They were completely unmindful of their own size and strength. Put food in front of them and they turned into animals. Put a girl in front of them and they turned into more pathetic animals. And they tried. They really did. But it was an uphill battle. A steep one.

Mandy was trying too, with way more satisfying results. She was the first of her siblings to start attending public events with Ian’s training. She had her stylist working round the clock, but the woman was over the moon to be dressing her.

Mandy accepted all the attention as if it was long overdue too. And for all her prickly attitude and crude language, Mandy seemed to charm the hell out of everyone she met. Within her first two weeks at the palace, she was already on a first name basis with everyone on the staff.

Of course, Lip had had his doubts. Especially on the night of the Eastern Culture, Western Fashion Gala. Ian had been nervous enough with Mickey escorting her (it had been his first public appearance). But Mandy and her stylist had set him on edge by announcing that she wouldn't be removing her nose ring.

Lip was having none of it. "This might be more of a Hollywood shindig than a political one, but that doesn't mean the society assholes aren't going to be watching," he told Mandy.

They were having this argument feet from the door, Ian observed. Inches from going out and getting the night over with. Mickey was pacing restlessly behind his sister, both of them decked out in designer labels, actually looking respectable. If they could just get out the door.

"The press snaps a picture of you with that thing," Lip said, "the fuckin' four-hundred will be up in arms that Christina Aguilera is their new princess."

"That thing?" snapped Linda, Mandy's stylist. "You didn't have a problem with that thing when she did the Vanity Fair interview last week."

"That was print!" Lip said.

"There was a photo shoot."

"Yeah," said Lip, "and we told them to airbrush it out."

"What?!" Mandy exclaimed.

"That is ridiculous," said Linda. "She's worn it in public before."

"Yeah," said Lip. "Before. She's been here long enough, this is her first formal event. We want to show her getting acclimated to her new surroundings."

"The hole. Will close. Up," Mandy explained through gritted teeth.

"Holy fuck," said Mickey, "you all need to close your fuckin’ holes."

"You're not helping, Mick," warned Ian.

"Excuse you? What happened to 'Your Highness?'" Mickey sneered.

"You complaining isn't getting us out of here any faster, _Your Highness_ ," Ian sneered back.

"I am not re-piercing my nose after every public event," said Mandy.

"Good," said Lip. "Cause you're not re-piercing it at all."

" _Phillip_ ," Linda started.

"Why are you so worked up, Linda?" Lip asked, waving at her hijab. "Aren't you Miss Modesty?"

Linda's eyes when black.

" _HEY_ ," Ian bellowed.

Four heads snapped up to look at him.

Ian took a breath and spoke low and quick. "What about a stud? Would a stud work? Do you have any Linda?"

"Yes," she said, hesitantly.

"Could you go pick one out please?" Ian asked.

"...Sure. Your Highness? Why don't you come take a look." She shot Lip a glare as she jogged to the stairs, Mandy close behind.

"A stud's still a piercing," Lip said.

"But it draws less attention, don't you think?" said Ian.

"It's still - "

"Give it a fucking rest, jesus!"

Lip glared at Mickey. "Your Highness, I’m only thinking of your sister’s best interests.”

“Bullshit,” said Mickey. “You’re thinking of this whole bullshit royal brand’s self interest. Who the fuck is she insulting if she wants to wear a goddamn ring in her nose? Ain’t she a fuckin’ princess now? Don’t that entitle her to do what she wants?”

Lip let out a hollow laugh. “Not if she wants to stay a princess.”

“That sounded like a threat,” Mickey said darkly, taking a step towards Lip.

“Okay,” Ian said, fed up with the dramatics. He hauled his brother away from the prince. “Let’s just get them to the goddamn gala and go from there, alright?”

Lip rolled his lips over his teeth and exhaled through his nose. “Fine, yeah. You’re right.”

“And you’re gonna apologize to Linda when she gets back,” Ian said.

Lip rolled his eyes. “Alright.”

“I’m fucking serious Lip, and you’re gonna mean it.”

“I will! Okay!”

Ian released him and walked over to take Mickey aside. He slapped Ian’s hand away from his arm, muttering “Get the fuck off,” through his cigarette.

“Are you ready for tonight?” Ian asked.

Mickey gave him an irritated look. “I don’t know, professor, wasn’t that kind of on you?”

“Don’t fuck around, Your Highness,” Ian warned. "You might look the part, but that doesn’t guarantee anything.”

Mickey lifted his chin, somehow managing to look down his nose at Ian though he was a good few inches shorter. Suddenly he smirked, “I look the part, do I?”

Ian had felt a shift in his energy, but he didn’t get the time to identify it. That was when Mandy and Linda had returned with her new hardware.

Mandy had been a hit at the gala, as was expected. Fashion critics raved about her piercing too, calling it “edgy sophistication” that made her “a breath of fresh air among the country’s high society.” Ian couldn’t help feeling kinda smug when he’d shared that one with Lip. He found himself cheering Mandy on when she refused to compromise who she was just to fit someone else’s idea of royalty.

Mickey had gotten through the night without any disasters. In fact, the press hadn’t paid much attention to him except in reference to Mandy (“The Princess was escorted by her dashing older brother...”). That was fine by Ian. Lip might have been a little dissatisfied with the lack of publicity, but Ian was fucking ecstatic.

Things with Mykola Milkovich had not improved since their first meeting. Every day, Ian joined the family at breakfast to go over their schedule. He had yet to get through one morning without Mickey heckling him.

“Are you the one organizing all this shit, Lurch?”

“I’ve been sleeping in late for the past twenty five years and the country hasn’t fallen apart.”

“Pink again? Do you just have a closet of pink ties, Kim Possible?”

“Yeah, mornin’, I Love Lucy. Who do I have to fuck to get a decent cup of coffee around here?”

“Not that a groundbreaking ceremony don’t sound fun, Little Orphan Annie, but I was kinda just hoping to hit up an IHOP, today.”

“Are you telling me we don’t get Saturdays off, Ginger Rogers?”

“Ginger Rogers wasn’t a redhead,” Ian had said.

“How would you know? It was all in black and white.”

“Mykola, eat your freakin’ omelette,” his mother snapped. She gave Ian a little smile. “And she was more of a strawberry blonde.”

She was usually the one to reign Mickey in at these outbursts, but it didn’t stop them from happening.

With the swarm of societal and political activity surrounding the appearance of a new royal family (and with teaching that family how to actually be royal), Ian’s plate was more than full these days. Ethel, his assistant, had picked up almost half of his staff duties. But it was Mickey who was rapidly becoming his biggest headache.

This weekend was was the first time the whole family would make an appearance together. And if that wasn't stressful enough, it was a charity ball. As in dancing. As in ballroom dancing. Ian knew the Milkoviches could get self-conscious around each other. So he and Ethel had been working with them individually. Ethel was shouldering even more of his workload this week so he could squeeze in extra lessons with the boys, and guess who he was seeing the most of?

The older Milkoviches might be grace-challenged, but there was no way to know Mickey's actual skill level because he was doing his best to look like the shittiest dancer since the inflatables outside car dealerships. This wasn't new either. When they'd gone over dining etiquette, Mickey had Jackson Pollock-ed that table cloth with gusto. When they'd tried to prep him for press interviews with Lip, he'd wound Ian's brother up in a way he hadn't seen since their last run in with their parents. And now he was butchering the waltz. Every time Ian tried to correct him, Mickey would follow his note to the extreme. If his rhythm was too fast, he'd slow down to a snail's crawl. If he was too stiff, his movements would become sloppier than if he'd downed ten shots. At least he was decent enough to spare Ethel's toes. The one time he'd stepped on them it really had seemed like an honest accident.

“No,” Ian said, coming back to the present as they waited on Mickey to get back from the bathroom. “I don’t miss Terry. But Mickey’s still the worst.”

“You know he wouldn’t pick on you so much if you didn’t let him upset you,” said Ethel.

“If I didn’t _let_ him upset me,” Ian repeated incredulously.

“I mean that showing your anger just gives him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to you,” Ethel said.

“Why does he want to get to me in the first place? I’m not his fucking boss, I’m not the one who dictates this shit. I can’t get him out of his fucking responsibilities.”

Ethel winced at his blue streak, but said, “His Highness strikes me as the type who just likes to get certain people’s goat.”

“Certain people?” Ian prompted.

“Well,” Ethel said, carefully, “You’re very stubborn.”

“Me? What about him?”

“And you can be sort of...willful. A bit...domineering.”

“The hell?”

“Not in a bad way,” Ethel promised. “I know you always mean well. It’s just sometimes you have trouble seeing things from other people’s perspective.”

“Ethel, what are you talking about?”

“His Highness is from a poorer class of people.”

“I know,” Ian said, shrugging. “So am I.”

“But you’re polished.”

This made Ian feel weirdly self conscious. “Just ‘cause I have to be…”

Ethel ignored him. “And you’ve had a long time to become polished. His Highness has been thrust into a situation that calls for him to drastically change how he’s perceived. And he has practically no time to complete such a transformation.”

Ian’s eyes widened. “Ok…”

“Maybe he lashes out at you because he’s envious,” said Ethel.

Ian snorted. “I don’t know, I think he’s pretty pleased with himself.”

“Well. I think he’s resentful,” she said. “You play the part of propriety so easily -”

“Says the girl using words like _propriety_ ,” muttered Ian.

“-maybe he’s worried he can’t measure up to someone like you,” she finished.

“Why do you have to think the best of everyone, Ethel?”

“I don’t think you’re giving His Highness enough credit,” she said. “I think if you gave him a chance, you’d see that he can be very kind. And while he should treat you better, I think you could be more understanding, too."

Ian crossed his arms and stared at the floor between his feet. “I guess that kinda makes sense.”

Ethel was too modest to actually say “I told you so,” but it was written all over her face.

“Well, anyway, how is that supposed to help us teach him to dance?” Ian said.

“You were right about splitting the family up for lessons,” she said. “Things went much faster when they weren’t worrying about getting teased.”

“What are you thinking?” asked Ian.

“Why don’t Sully and I leave you to work with him in private,” she said.

Ian stared at her. “Wouldn’t you be better with him? I mean, if he has so many issues with me…”

“This definitely isn’t his last lesson with you, Ian.” She was wearing her “mom” expression. “I think you need to address this.”

Ian rolled his head back and groaned at the ceiling.

“Ian,” Ethel said.

“Can’t we leave it for the next lesson?” he whined.

“You need to take care of this as soon as possible,” she said.

Ian’s sigh was huffy. “Alright fine.”

Just then, Mickey and Sully re-entered the ballroom. “Sorry, chief,” Mickey said as he started descending the staircase. “I tried pissing out all the ‘fucks’ but they keep popping up.”

“Your Highness,” Ethel said, clearly excited to begin her human resources experiment. “Ian and I were thinking you might feel more comfortable working with more privacy.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Mickey asked as he met Ethel on the floor.

“I was thinking Sully and I could leave you to work with Ian alone.”

Sully stopped, half-way down the steps, and sighed at the thought of having to climb back up again.

Mickey looked uncomfortable. “Is that...safe? I mean for me? Without Sully?”

There was a short, amused silence.

“You know you’re perfectly safe inside the palace walls, Your Highness,” Ethel said. “We mostly have guards join us to keep Ian on top of house security.”

“Right,” Mickey said. “But is it really necessary for you to leave?”

“Your Highness.” To Ian’s surprise, Ethel broken her “mom” face out again. To use on the prince. _Go Saint Ethel_. “We’ve clearly hit a rut and I’m sure I’m only distracting you. It really would be better if Ian worked with you hands-on.”

“Uh,” Mickey said, but Ethel spoke over him with a cheerful, “So!” She looked between him and Ian. “I suppose, we’ll leave you to it. Come on, Sully.” She jogged up the steps quickly and Mickey looked after her, a little dumbfounded, as she and Sully left the ballroom.

Mickey turned to Ian and asked, “And who the fuck am I supposed to dance with?”

“You’ll - oh,” Ian stuttered, realizing he’d overlooked the most obvious excuse to get him out of this one-on-one session. He took the steps two at a time, calling, “Ethel! Hey, Ethel?!” before he even reached the door. But when he poked his head out into the hallway there was no sign of her or Sully.

He turned back to find Mickey staring up at him. Arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Okay,” Mickey said. “So, we’re done here, right?” He started up the steps.

“No,” said Ian, rushing down to block him. “You’re not leaving this room until you can waltz.”

“I don’t have anyone to partner with!”

“Oh? And what am I, asshole?”

Mickey stared at him, then started to laugh.

Ian let out his millionth frustrated sigh of the night. He closed his eyes and waited for Mickey to get over it.

"You know,” Mickey said, still chuckling, “for someone who’s supposed to care about them so much, you really have trouble keeping track of the formalities."

"I don't care about them, Mick. It's your new motherfucking social circle that cares about them. And they care about them a lot. Which is why you gotta start acting like you care too."

Mickey cocked his head, smirking. "Or what, tough guy?"

"Or your family's going to be a laughingstock."

Mickey sobered.

"Yeah,” Ian murmured. “You don't care what they think about you, but you care what they think about them, don't you?" He dropped down to share Mickey’s step, trapping him against the banister. “They’re doing really well, Mick. Even Iggy, who’s got two left feet. He’s looking great. You want to fuck up all their hard work just because you have a chip on your shoulder?”

Mickey’s nostrils flared but he said nothing.

“Come on,” Ian said. He stepped down, making his way to the portable speakers. He picked up the phone to scroll through the playlist Ethel had made for them. They’d been working with classical stuff all night, which was fine, but he put a jazz number on repeat in the hopes it might mellow Mickey out a little.

“That’s too fast,” he heard Mickey say.

“We’ll start slower you’ll be fine,” said Ian as he straightened.

Mickey thumbed his nose and shuffled a bit as Ian approached him. Ian ignored it and grabbed him by the wrists.

“You’re gonna show me the box step,” Ian said as he held Mickey’s right hand out and placed the other just above his waist. “With _regular sized steps_.”

That earned him another glare, but at least Mickey lost some of his discomfort.

For a moment they just stood.

“Any day now, Your Highness,” said Ian.

“Fuck you, I’m finding the fucking beat,” Mickey shot back.

Ian watched as Mickey nodded his head a few times, counting the rhythm, before stepping forward. At the last moment, Ian remembered to step back. _You’re following, dumbass._

Their fumbling made the first three steps jerky, but to Ian’s surprise, Mickey managed to smooth them out over the next few bars.

“ _Good_ ,” Ian exclaimed softly, almost to himself.

Mickey’s gaze shot up. “What, you didn’t think I could do it?”

“No, I knew you could do it, I’m just shocked you’re cooperating,” said Ian.

“It’s what you wanted isn’t it?”

“You’re speeding up,” Ian warned. “Don’t lose the beat.”

Mickey eyes dropped back to Ian’s chest as he concentrated, slowing them to tempo.

Ian looked over him as they moved. His posture was good, if a little stiff. Nothing flimsy about the way he held Ian either. With all of his bravado, Ian figured Mickey’d get a bit edgy about dancing with another man, but the hand on Ian’s waist was firm.

“Can you turn for me?” Ian asked.

Mickey tried to oblige, stepping wide to his left but he lost his footing and stumbled. Ian snagged him by the shirt and righted him.

“ _No_ ,” Mickey was muttering. “I don’t know where the hell I’m going -”

“It’s ok,” Ian said. “You’re aiming for the next wall every time you turn." He pointed. "Like the macarena.”

“The macarena,” Mickey repeated, voice dripping with disdain.

“You know, _heeeeyy..._ ” Ian wiggled his hips and hopped to face the wall to his right. “But instead of jumping, you do the three steps.”

When he looked back at Mickey, the prince looked a little flushed.

“I can lead you through a few of ‘em,” Ian said, taking Mickey’s hands to position him again. Mickey jerked at his touch, but then relaxed. Ian placed Mickey’s right hand on his shoulder this time. “Remember, I’m leading, so you’re gonna step back-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said.

Ian counted through two measures before stepping, Mickey gliding back as he moved forward. Ian took them through a few steps in place before warning Mickey they were going to turn and steering him so that his back was to the next wall. “...three...and another one...two...three,” he turned them again. Mickey followed, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence.

Ian led them in a wide arc around the floor, eventually trailing off his count. He felt Mickey relax under his hands, and he could see the corner of his mouth hitch as he hid a smile. Just when Ian was about to stop them so that they could switch roles, Mickey glanced over at the speakers and asked “Is this fucking ‘Someday My Prince Will Come?’”

Ian listened. “Oh my god, I think your right.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey said, but he was grinning.

“Ethel picked these songs,” Ian said. “She can be kinda...on the nose.”

“Well, by some fuck up, I _am_ a prince,” Mickey said.

“Yeah,” Ian heard himself say, giddy, “but hopefully this won’t make you come.”

Mickey stopped, abruptly.

Which was helpful, because Ian had frozen.

“Wow,” Mickey said.

“ _Shit_ ,” Ian whispered.

Mickey started to snigger, and then outright guffawed.

Ian put a hand over his mouth, face hot.

“You did that one all by yourself, huh?” Mickey said, gleefully. “I didn’t even have to get you mad.”

“Fuck you,” Ian said stepping away, avoiding his eyes.

“Hey, no,” Mickey said, waving a hand, “I’m impressed.”

“This is your fault,” Ian said, whirling back to face him. “You’ve conditioned me to be completely inappropriate around you!” Mickey was laughing again. Ian was not. “You’re always picking on me!” he accused.

“Well, you’re kinda asking for it!” Mickey returned.

“I have been nothing but courteous to you -”

“ _Courteous_ ,” Mickey repeated.

“It’s my job to be nice to you, Mickey,” Ian said, “And I’ve been doing my fucking job. So what the hell have I done to make you want to torture me?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mickey said. “If you weren’t so hoity-fuckin-toity all the time, you wouldn’t need loosening up.”

“I’m not supposed to be loose. I’m the head of the royal house staff,” Ian said.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Believe me I know.”

“Oh get the fuck out with that classist crap,” Ian said. “So you went from Canaryville to a palace and now you’re worried you can’t learn a whole new set of rules. Get the fuck over it.”

“Fuck you, I can adapt,” Mickey said.

“Not from where I’m standing,” Ian said.

“Am I hallucinating, or were we not dancing around like debutants two seconds ago?”

“Yeah,” Ian said. “After hours of you trying to weasel your way out of it.”

Mickey stepped towards him, crowding him, jaw set. “I was not weaseling out of anything,” he said lowly.

Undaunted, Ian stepped closer. “Please, Mickey,” he said, matching his pitch. “You’re all bark, but it’s just for show. It’s just a cover-up.”

“I am not-”

“You wanna shock me? Huh?” Ian challenged, softly. “Why don’t you say what’s really fucking bothering you, for a change?”

Mickey stared at him.

“Why don’t you mean something, for once? _That_ ’ll blow my mind.”

The stood, half an inch between them, breath coming in short angry huffs.

And then Mickey’s mouth was on Ian’s.

Which was confusing.

Which was fucking baffling, actually, until Mickey sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. And then something snapped. Then all of Ian’s frustration was pouring out of him in a strange fury as he gripped the back of Mickey’s neck and licked into him. As Mickey’s hand dragged up his side. As he fisted a hand in Ian’s shirt to haul them flush against each other.

And Ian couldn’t register that the situation had snowballed way out of control, because he was too busy walking Mickey back to plaster him against a column with his body. And maybe Mickey bit into him with a painful jerk as they hit the column, but who the fuck cared. It was all a mess anyway. A hot, lush, open-mouthed, tangle of tongue and teeth and fuck. Mickey rolled his hips up into Ian’s and Ian groaned because he could feel Mickey hard against him through the worn denim. Ian pressed back and Mickey’s fingers dug into his ass to hold him there. Ian’s hand slid under Micky’s thigh as it hitched around his waist. And they were rutting, panting into each other’s mouths when Ian heard the door screech as it opened -

By some miracle, they had enough coherent thought left to spring apart at the sound. Ian was half way across the floor to turn off the music before he even realized what he was doing.

“Sorry!” Ethel said as she bustled in. She was carrying a heavy looking boombox that she placed at the top of the stairs. “I forgot you were using my phone for the music. But I looked around, and -”

“ _No!_ ” Ian said as he unplugged Ethel’s phone from the speakers. “It’s totally fine! We were just finishing up anyway!” His voice rang out in the large room. Too loud. Way too loud.

“Are you sure?” Ethel asked.

“Oh yeah,” said Ian, managing to bring his voice down a decibel. “We made lots of progress.” He glanced at Mickey who was doing everything to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Really? I’d love to see you,” Ethel said.

“Uh,” said Ian.

“ _No_ ,” said Mickey.

Ian cleared his throat. “Really Ethel, I don’t want to overwork His Highness.”

“Oh! Of course not,” Ethel said, adamantly. Always the worrier. _Yes, Ethel_ , Ian thought. _Worry._

“Well, you get your rest, Your Highness,” Ethel told Mickey as he passed her on the steps. She didn’t seem to notice how fast he was moving. She caught the door behind him as he flung it open and called, “Goodnight!” as he sped out into the hall.

“Yeah,” Ian said, climbing up behind Ethel, “I think I’m going to call it a night too.”

“But you have to tell me how it went,” she said excitedly, turning to face him. “Did you talk about what I told you? Did you get it all out?”

“We…” Ian sputtered. “Yeah. Sure.”

Ethel squeezed his shoulder. “That’s wonderful! You think things’ll go easier now?”

Ian shrugged and forced smile, and she beamed and started chattering away about the importance of communication. As he helped her lug the boombox back to the servants quarters, Ian tried not to think about how he may have just launched himself from a frying pan into a very inconvenient fire.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever! So be gentle! (or don't, whatever, mainly just tell me what you think!!)
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://youre-not-a-cat-youre-a-rat.tumblr.com/


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